


The Copper Breeches (Ch8)

by CarmillaCarmine



Series: The Memoirs of Dr. John H. Watson [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Case Fic, M/M, Murder, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-07 15:55:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16411496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmillaCarmine/pseuds/CarmillaCarmine
Summary: A widow comes to Baker Street asking for help in solving a burglary that took place the same day she found her husband dead.





	The Copper Breeches (Ch8)

**Author's Note:**

> Part 8 of "deleted scenes" style fic [The Memoirs of Dr. John H. Watson](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1158497)  
> Almost all parts can be read as stand-alone stories but read better together. The Memoirs fit between or during episodes of the Sherlock TV show. At the beginning of each part, I'll be indicating when in the show the part takes place. Consequently, there are gaps between my stories where the episodes of the show fit it.
> 
> This chapter takes place before Moriarty’s trial, (The Reichenbach Fall -S2 E3) during the six weeks Moriarty was in custody after his break-ins to the Crown Jewels chamber/Bank of England/Pentonville Prison.  
> I wanted to use the last moments of John’s and Sherlock’s domestic bliss before everything went to shit.
> 
> A giant thank to my wonderful Beta @MsScarlet! Without her this chapter would make little sense.

 

 

Following a visit the night before from Mrs. Rebecca Norwood, a grieving widow with a suspicious burglary problem, John and Sherlock found themselves on their way to said widow’s house first thing the next morning.  

“Have you bought the new toothbrushes yet?” Sherlock asked, out of the blue, after the cab he yelled for stopped in front of Baker Street. 

“What?” John slid inside and made space for Sherlock next to him. He turned to his friend as he said “I purchased them yesterday. How could you possibly know that?” 

“Every three months, as the dentist ordered, you replace your toothbrush and, from habit I assume, mine as well. If you’re planning to continue the habit quarterly on the fifth then today is the day. Our toothbrush cup this morning still had the old brushes, so either you’ve already purchased them but not had the time to replace them or you’re planning to do it today.” Sherlock looked at John for the first time since he started his explanation and registered his raised eyebrows. “Meticulous hygiene habits, John. Don’t worry, I don’t mind at all.”  

“They’re in the grocery bag in the kitchen,” John admitted, “I went to get them this morning but didn’t get the time to unpack them as we were in a hurry once you finally woke up.” 

Sherlock opened his mouth, sighed and closed it. That was the closest to a thank you that John could wish for and he was okay with that. John smiled to himself but by Sherlock’s expression, he knew the detective was in a case-solving mode already. 

“Sherlock?” John brought his mind back to the day before and the case at hand. “The moment Mrs. Norwood entered our flat yesterday, you knew it was her husband who died. How? I know she was wearing black but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.” 

“By the state of her eyes and hair, she hadn’t slept well for at least three days. Probably because she was distressed, but also because she hasn’t been sleeping in her own bed. Quite possibly, she hasn’t felt able to visit her own house due to trauma. That would also explain the shirt. It’s clearly borrowed, as the sleeves were too long for her small frame. Something happened at her house, then.  

Combining that with her constantly fidgeting with the old wedding ring on her finger and the black clothes we come to the conclusion that she lost the person who gave her the ring. Husband it is then,” Sherlock recited in what seemed to be one intake of breath.   

“Right,” John acknowledged the information and reached into his jacket pocket. “A mobile phone, a daily planner, and an umbrella...” John read from his notebook. “The items stolen from Mrs. Norwood’s house seem to be random. We need to find the connection between them. He could have used the first two for writing something down, but an umbrella?”  

“There won’t be any more connection than what you just deduced, John.” 

“So, I was right?!”  

“They might have been stolen in order to focus the police’s attention in that direction whereas the burglar was truly looking for something else.” Sherlock ignored John’s excited exclamation. “He, because statistically it would be a he, didn’t find what he was looking for, so he took random items to throw the police off. The police didn’t think much of it as the items stolen were of no great value.” Sherlock fell quiet for a moment, thinking.  

“And he broke in the same evening that Mr. Norwood had a heart attack. I know what you think of coincidences. So maybe he saw the burglar and that’s what triggered the coronary? From what his wife told us, he had a heart condition so that explanation is entirely plausible.” 

Sherlock turned to John, a spark of an idea in his eyes, the left corner of his lips lifting in a smile. “Or maybe the burglar had not been a burglar at all...” 

 

\--- 

 

“Sherlock? Try to be respectful,” John chided in advance as they stood on Mrs. Norwood’s doorstep because he knew Sherlock well enough to know he needed the reminder. 

“Of what?”  

“Mrs. Norwood. She just lost her husband.” 

“That. Right...” Sherlock gave John an exasperated look. 

John lifted his fist to knock at the same moment that Sherlock rang the doorbell. The widow greeted them and let them inside with a sad but welcoming smile. The wooden floor creaked as they entered the house and John looked around at the well-preserved old furniture and shelves adorned with what seemed like hundreds of elephant figurines. When asked, both John and Sherlock declined the offer of tea. John was aware that Sherlock hadn’t eaten breakfast, but he also knew that Sherlock wouldn’t eat before a case so he saved his nagging for another time. 

“Tell us the whole story again, and don’t omit any detail, no matter how insignificant you think it might be,” Sherlock demanded already walking around the sitting room, peering into nooks and crannies. “Start with your husband's work and habits,” he glanced at John and added “please.”  

The widow’s distressed gaze kept following Sherlock. She frowned at what she clearly considered to be eccentric behaviour and looked to John for explanation. John offered a small smile and a nod towards the detective to indicate that she should answer the questions asked. It was she who had come to them for help after all. Most people reacted with bewilderment when they observed Sherlock in his element and John didn’t blame them. However, he found Sherlock’s methods extraordinary and would never get tired of watching him at work. 

“He is... was a professor,” the woman’s voice broke as she forced herself to talk about her husband in the past tense. “He was attending a three-day conference in Bristol but came back home a day early. I was coming back from a late business meeting that night. As I exited the taxi, I saw the light was on in the sitting room. I assumed I must have left it that way, I’ve done that before. But then I saw Alan’s car and hurried up the front steps and through the parlour to meet him.” Her face fell, the sadness in her downturned eyes allowing only a glimpse of the emotion weighing on her heart. After a moment however, she mustered the courage to continue. “I found him here.” She walked across the room and pointed to a brown leather recliner armchair. “From the horrid, contorted look on his face, I knew he must be dead. I screamed in horror.”  Sherlock immediately followed her and walked around the chair, looked under it and finally pointed to the small round coffee table just next to it. 

“Did you wipe this table after you’d found him?” 

“No, I didn’t get the chance and there was no point doing it. I haven’t invited people to the house for the funeral and I couldn't possibly sleep here without him. I’ve been staying at my daughter’s since that night. She’s been so helpful with the arrangements. I didn’t ask her to clean the house. I won’t be inviting anyone here so soon after he... he...” she explained apologetically, clearly distressed by the unruly state of her house even in the midst of a tragedy. She blew her nose with a loud honk. Sherlock looked to the ceiling, unsuccessfully trying to hide his exasperation. “Olivia, my daughter you see, she just came here once or twice to do the laundry because I needed the clothes,” she explained as she continued wiping her nose. 

“Perfect,” Sherlock slid his finger over the table, crouched next to it and sniffed the top of it. “Lagavulin,” he said then turned to the widow again, “You did put the glasses away though. There were two glasses, correct?” 

“Ummm yes,” the widow looked confused. “I put both glasses in the sink. Habit. Alan never returned plates or glasses to the kitchen,” she released a small sob. 

“Focus,” Sherlock snapped close to her, looking at her face. “Were the glasses full or empty?” 

“I cannot possibly remember that...” she said taking a step back from Sherlock. 

“You have to remember. Make yourself remember. This is crucial information!” Sherlock fired in rapid succession.  

“Sherlock...” John’s admonishing tone of voice from behind him made Sherlock calm his voice a tone or two. 

“One glass was empty and the other... wasn’t,” the woman replied in a trembling voice. 

“It was completely untouched.” Sherlock deduced. “The glass on your husband’s side was empty but the other one stood untouched. With the whisky still in it. Am I wrong?”  

“No,” she hesitated, “Yes, that’s how I found the glasses.” 

At the widow’s confirmation, Sherlock abruptly moved to the liquor cabinet, turned the key hanging from the lock of the stained-glass door and opened it. “It’s not here!” he shouted. He looked to the floor, lowered himself to his hands and knees and crawled looking under the cabinet, under the couch, the table... It would have been comical for John to watch if it wasn’t for the fact that they were at a widow’s house. Also, John was used to it by now. 

“Here!” Sherlock yelled, “there was a broken bottle here.” he motioned to Mrs. Norwood to come closer to him as he pointed to the stained oriental rug.  

“Yes, I picked up the broken glass but I didn’t have the head to clean the rug that day. I will probably have to get a new one. But it’s just a broken bottle. What does it have to do with the burglary?” 

“Everything!” Sherlock exclaimed straightening to his feet with exceptional speed and agility. “Sometimes the deception is so audacious, so outrageous, it’s staring you in the face,” he turned towards the widow then and revealed his discovery.  

“Your husband didn’t die from a heart attack, he was MURDERED!” Sherlock swivelled towards John while exclaiming the last word and the joy on his face would be heart-warming if not for the circumstances. John gave him a stern look, his eyes bouncing between Sherlock and the widow who was clearly very upset. 

“No, no... Alan struggled with high blood pressure and high cholesterol, we found out it has gotten worse after we did the check-up when he turned sixty last year. He went on a diet but his doctor was still worried about the risks especially after he had to have a double bypass last year. He died of a heart attack and you’re here to investigate the burglary. What you’re saying makes no sense, Mr. Holmes!” Mrs. Norwood exclaimed in a trembling voice, her palms framing her flushed from distress face. 

“Fear not, I’ll solve his murder and find your burglar. You can go make tea or whatever it is that you do. I need silence.” Sherlock practically shooed the woman from her own sitting room. 

John gave Sherlock a disapproving glance that went completely ignored. He gave up pointing out Sherlock’s rude behaviour at that point, becoming more and more interested in the case and what Sherlock had to say about it. 

“What have you figured out?” John asked. 

“He was sitting here,” Sherlock punctuated his words by flopping his weight on the armchair theatrically, “when she found him dead. It looked like a heart attack. He was tired, felt bad, came back home early from the conference. He didn’t recognize the symptoms. So, he poured himself a glass of single malt and after finishing the drink, the coronary got him. He died in his favourite chair. Right?” 

“Right,” John replied a little confused since Sherlock just told them it had been a murder. 

“WRONG!” Sherlock sprang from the chair, twirling on his heel while clasping his palms together. “Don’t you see John?! Observe!” 

“Ok, what? What am I not seeing?” John was a tad annoyed. 

“He came back home with someone familiar, a friend or a colleague. Probably straight from the conference. He took out the whisky, took two glasses from the cupboard and placed them on the coffee table – you can tell by the two round dried stains. The guest sat next to him on the chair.” 

“What chair?” 

“That chair!” Sherlock indicated a chair standing on the other side of the sitting room and pointed a finger to the rug. “The guest didn’t want anyone to know he had been here so he dragged the chair back as indicated by the two track marks on the rug which thankfully hasn’t been vacuumed since that day.  However, he was in a hurry and he forgot to dispose of his glass. Not a very experienced murderer if you asked me. I would have done it much better.” 

“Thankfully, you’re not a murderer then...” John commented but Sherlock continued his tirade as if John hadn’t uttered a word. 

“Once Dr. Norwood was dead, our killer wanted the bottle, obviously.” 

“Obviously?” 

“Yes, the murderer poisoned the whiskey and after Dr. Norwood drank the poison, he wanted to get rid of the evidence. In his haste, he broke the bottle and panicked, so he left it where it shattered and ran.” 

“If he had come here to kill Alan Norwood and made it look like a heart attack then why did he take the random items?” John wondered out loud. 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed as he pondered the possibilities. “That’s one question we’ve yet to answer. But most importantly, why was Alan Norwood murdered in the first place? What was the motive?” 

“Do you have anything?” 

“Eight possibilities so far...” Sherlock started towards the door to the kitchen. “Mrs. Norwood!” Sherlock yelled and waited for the widow to emerge from the kitchen before he continued. “Did your husband have a study?” 

“Yes, he...” 

“Was there a safe in the study or anywhere else in the house?” 

“Yes, in the bedroom, but nothing was stolen from it. You're welcome to come and see.” 

“Show me the safe first,” Sherlock asked as they all headed upstairs. In the east-facing room, the safe was embedded in the wall opposite the bed. A replica of van Gogh’s sunflowers concealed the safe and Mrs. Norwood paused when she was taking it off the wall. 

After a quick inspection, Sherlock concluded that it had been opened but by someone who knew the code.  

“I noticed just now that the painting was hanging a little to the side,” Mrs. Norwood said. 

“And you’re sure nothing has been stolen from the safe?” Sherlock asked. At the nod of the woman he continued sliding his fingers along the safe and tapping it from the outside. “Can you open it?” he asked Mrs. Norwood and she did so. Inside the safe, there was a small jewellery box and a watch. Sherlock inspected both, but put them away and moved on towards the bed. He sniffed the pillow, slid his finger over the bedside table and inspected it afterwards. Then he picked up the notepad from the bedside table turned it towards the window, letting the sun shine through the blank page on top. 

“Did your husband have any hobbies?” Sherlock asked, still not revealing any of his observations. 

“Not as such. Come this way please.” They followed her to the adjacent room. “His hobby was his work, he spent hours here, many times he didn’t even come to bed but slept on the couch in his study. 

“And even if he came to bed, he still made notes on the pad next to it,” Sherlock said more to himself than to anyone else. “His study,” Sherlock looked into the room the widow indicated, “more like his lab. You failed to mention that your husband was a chemistry professor, wasn’t he?” Sherlock’s eyes twinkled at the sight of the room unveiled by the open door.  

He started inspecting every surface. He picked up and put down vials, notebooks, he even looked through the microscope... “What was your husband working on?” He finally asked while swirling a clear substance in a vial he held in between his index finger and thumb.  

“He liked experimenting but he never told me what it was he had been doing. I have no experience with chemistry so I wouldn’t understand,” Mrs. Norwood explained. 

“No, he just didn’t want you to know that he had invented something dangerous.” 

“What?” the widow was as shocked as John was at the news. 

“It looked like he had a heart attack but he had been poisoned. With whatever he had invented here. Judging by what I can see in this lab, I think it’s safe to assume that his concoction caused it.” 

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Norwood,” John told the distressed woman, “he might have been creating a drug, some kind of medicine. He was trying to do something good here, right?” John gave Sherlock a stern look. This day might be full of those. 

“He might have been researching something to alleviate his heart condition,” Sherlock said and flattened his lips as he thought. "John, I need a list of people who attended that conference. Mrs. Norwood, I’ll need a list of his colleagues and friends to cross-reference it with the conference list. His daily planner was among the stolen items, you said?” 

“Yes...” 

“Oooooh this is good,” Sherlock stopped rummaging through the items in the lab and looked towards the ceiling. “Oh, how fitting!” 

“What is? Sherlock what are you on about?” 

“It’s so obvious!” 

“Sherlock....” John’s annoyed tone made the detective stop to explain. 

“Your husband,” he turned to the widow then continued, “was he excited before he left for the conference?” 

“Yes, very unusually so. He hates public speaking,” Mrs. Norwood looked confused but kept her composure. Her eyes had dried of tears by now and she was determined to help. 

“He was excited to attended the conference because he finally discovered something. It might have been a drug indeed, but it was poisonous too. He wanted to share his discovery at the conference. 

But before he told everyone about it, he confided in a colleague. And that was his mistake. Trust. Human error, that’s what trust is, Mrs Norwood. His colleague wanted the formula to himself. He convinced your husband that he could help him present it or improve it and thus convinced him to come back a day early so they could inspect it together. It must have been here in the house. The wrong dose of the drug was poisonous and that might have been what he had needed the help with. Yes. That was it.” Sherlock kept explaining enthusiastically, gesticulating widely in the small space, miraculously not hitting any of the equipment.  

“They arrived here in the house, your husband and his colleague. Your husband went to the bedroom first to take the poison from the safe - you’ll notice there’s just enough space there for a vial next to your jewellery box and his watch. Then he took it downstairs and handed it to the colleague. Possibly so they can inspect it further at the better-equipped university lab. While he went to get the glasses, the guest put the poison in the whisky, knowing that your husband must have the formula written down somewhere around the house and he’d be able to replicate it.  

Knowing the whisky was poisoned, the guest waited for your husband to drink it while leaving his own glass untouched. Then, he left the dying man and ran to the lab to find the formula - notice the half-closed shelves and broken vials. Dr. Norwood was a meticulous man, I can tell from the state of his lab, he wouldn’t leave the formula lying somewhere unattended. The colleague couldn’t find it in the lab so he went back downstairs to take the poisoned whiskey in hopes of extracting the drug from there.  

In haste, however he broke the bottle and all its contents were absorbed by the rug. He took your husband’s daily planner in case the formula was there and a wall calendar following the same logic. I suspect the umbrella was a last-minute decision because it had been raining that day.  

But your husband was a careful man. He hadn’t kept the formula in a safe so he couldn’t have kept it in a daily planner either. And definitely not online. Your burglar will almost certainly come back here again. He may not know you’re staying at your daughter’s house, so he would plan to come at the time anyone would be least expected to be in the house. The highest probability date is the evening of the funeral. No family member would be around the house, including yourself. Can you tell me which hospital was your husband taken into?” 

“St. Barts, it’s the closest.” 

Sherlock turned to John then. “I need to see his body to confirm he’s been poisoned and inform the police.” Sherlock swivelled on his heel and in a swish of coat was out of the lab, down the stairs, leaving left John to apologise and placate the trembling widow. 

 

\--- 

 

“I need to see the corpse of Alan Norwood,” Sherlock fired to Molly in lieu of greeting. “And I might need your lab.” 

“But the paperwork is done and he’ll be transported to the funeral home in hours ...” 

“This will just take a moment. Thank you,” Sherlock said already putting latex gloves on. 

With a sigh of resignation, Molly looked at John as they all were already headed to the morgue. 

“The autopsy confirmed the cause of death to be a heart attack,” Molly said as she handed Sherlock the pathology report. “What are you looking for then?”  

“He had been poisoned. I need to look at him to confirm it.” 

“Sherlock, it’s impossible to know if he’d been poisoned if we have no idea what kind of drug was used,” John informed his friend while Molly prepared the cadaver for the viewing. 

Sherlock reached into his coat pocket and showed John a vial with a little bit of clear substance inside. 

“But you said that the killer looked for it in the lab,” John said in disbelief. 

“He didn’t know where to look,” Sherlock smiled and put the vial back in his pocket. “We can also check for signs of what he had done before he took his last breath,” Sherlock leaned over the face of the deceased, looking intently, then moved the sheet to expose Mr. Norwood’s chest.  

“What would you do if you were having a heart attack, John?” Sherlock straightened his back and looked squarely at his friend, awaiting the answer.  

“I would clutch my chest, it’s what people do when...” 

“And what if you drank something poisonous with an immediate effect?” 

“I would...” John stepped closer to the dead body to see for himself, his eyes widening at the discovery “... I would clutch at my belly or claw at my neck.” 

“Exactly,” Sherlock’s triumph was palpable as he took the dead man’s hand and inspected under his fingernails. 

Indeed, the cadaver’s neck had clear scratch marks and the fingernails of his right hand had skin underneath them. 

“You can let Lestrade know that there is a sample of the drug used to poison Alan Norwood. Forensics can test them to confirm my theory. In the meantime, we need to find the written formula before our murderer gets to it and, inadvertently or not, kills more people.” 

Sherlock turned towards the door where Molly stood. “Were there any items, papers, notes, napkins with writing on them, with the body when it arrived?” Sherlock asked Molly. 

“Not that I’m aware of. All of his things are still in a box here, the family hasn’t picked them up yet.” 

“Show me.” Sherlock demanded. Molly was right and there was nothing of importance in Alan Norwood possessions. Sherlock closed his eyes, took a deep breath.... ”Shhhh” he said sharply but Molly and John just exchanged a knowing look as neither of them uttered a word. Sherlock touched the tips of his gloved fingers to his temples and closed his eyes. He opened them accompanied with a sharp intake of breath.  

“Laundry!” He exclaimed jumping half a foot in the air before leaving the mortuary in a swish of his coat. John ran after him and a short taxi ride later they were back at Mrs. Norwood’s house.  

- 

“I need to see his suitcase!” 

“Suitcase?” the widow looked confused. It seemed to be her default state when Sherlock was around. 

“Luggage, bag, duffel, whatever your husband travelled with to the conference.” 

“It’s here, but it’s empty. My daughter already washed all his clothes.” She looked apologetically at Sherlock. 

“Do you remember which clothes he took with him?” 

“Yes, I did the packing for him. God knows he would forget even his toothbrush if it weren't for me.” 

“Oh, I know the type,” muttered John. He was sure he could see Sherlock’s lips twitch in a small smile before he continued the investigation. 

“Would you care to show the clothes to me?” Sherlock waved his hand for her to guide him and she obliged. He went through the clean clothes, checking all the pockets until he finally took out a washed ball of paper from the front pocket of red corduroy trousers.  

“I can confirm from the tiny marks still visible that it’s highly probable that this had been the formula our murdering burglar had been looking for.” Sherlock handed the bundled piece of paper to the widow. “We’ve asked the police to keep your case quiet so the papers won’t get wind of your story until after we’ve caught the killer. Go on about your business. Arrange the funeral as it was supposed to happen prior to the revelation of the circumstances of your husband’s death. My companion and I will be at your house waiting for the murderer to visit again.” 

“Isn’t that the police’s job?” she asked a tad worried. 

“Now, Mrs. Norwood, why would I let them have all the fun? Hmm?” 

 

\--- 

 

On the day of Dr. Norwood’s funeral, John found himself perched on the sitting room couch of the Norwood home with his gun in hand. Next to him, Sherlock seemed almost bioluminescent from excitement as they sat in the dim room, with the curtains drawn. Sure enough, a little after 3 pm, there was a sound of the door being prodded open. John held his gun trained on the burglar when Sherlock turned the light on. 

“Surprise!” Sherlock yelled enthusiastically waving his hands in the air. “You think you’re being so clever, breaking in while the widow was grieving at the funeral? You haven’t found the formula in his daily planner, have you?” Sherlock’s words came out more like statements than questions as the small round man with spectacles on his nose cowered back against the doorframe. He was completely horrified by the sight of John and Sherlock in the room, especially when he saw the gun pointed at his face. “Doctor Sterndale, isn’t it?” Sherlock continued. “Explain yourself.” 

“I... I... I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Save it. Just tell us what happened.” John said sternly. 

The man sighed with resignation and told the story of how Dr. Norwood approached him at the conference, how he saw the opportunity of a lifetime and how he never wanted to kill him. “I just wanted the recognition I deserved. A tenure! I worked my whole life for it and I’m still a nobody. That formula would have made my retirement easy,” he started crying. John sighed, lowered his gun but still held it ready, and approached the man as Sherlock took out his phone to call Lestrade. 

 


End file.
